Lessons in Friendship 9 - Rhythms of the mind
by TheGracefulBlueCat
Summary: John stumbles into several situations where he witnesses Sherlock experience sounds and other sensual input, because it is very different from how other people perceive, he decides to explore the topic. There might be hints of synaesthesia in here. Intense descriptions of experiencing sensory information. H/C, some whump, friendship, Sherlock opening up a bit, doctor!John
1. Chapter 1

**Lessons in Friendship 9 - Rhythms of the mind**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

 _._

 _To all of you who are currently following my story 'Define Vulnerability': be assure I have not abandoned it. I have been working on that two-part story for one and a half years now, and it is rather difficult for me to write. So while writing it and the scenes around Sherlock's violin and his relationship to her, the topic 'music' resurfaced several times in my mind, I wrote them into the story at first, but later removed them again (before publishing of course) and put them in a whole new 'Lessons in Friendship'-story. So this is - as a draft - with me for quite some time. Now I need a bit of a distraction and I can't work on Define vulnerability right now. I had planned to start this story as soon as 'Define vulnerability' was finished, but I need to write something now, so I am doing this earlier than I planned._

 _.  
_

 _The parts of this story are from several different moments of Sherlock's and John's friendship, but all before 'The Fall'. They are all about John exploring Sherlock's relation to music._

 _..._

* * *

...

 **Chapter 1 - Before Irene and Baskerville**

"Sherlock?" John yelled, putting his laptop case down. He had been away for the weekend and what greeted him when he returned was _new_.

The flat was filled with loud instrumental music, _very_ loud music in fact. The melody seemed vaguely familiar. The volume was not at all neighbour-friendly for a Sunday evening, it was almost 21.45.

John listened for a moment.

At first he had thought it must be classic, it was definitely coming from Sherlock's room. It was also definitely music made by a large orchestra, but something sounded unusual about it, it was kind of restless, but he couldn't put a finger on why.

Sherlock must be in his room and not being able to hear him due to the sheer volume.

The doctor headed down the hall and knocked at the other man's door, when no answer came he knocked again, loudly this time, but again nothing happened.

Playing music this loud was usually not Sherlock's thing, especially since the man had quite a fine hearing and was sensible to loud noise, therefore this was kind of odd.

John carefully opened the door, a bit alarmed about not getting a response.

His breathing stopped when he saw the consulting detective lying on the ground, kind of spread-eagled, his arms outstretched and his head bend backwards a bit. His legs were pointed towards his sound system and his feet were resting close to each other. The body was not really relaxed but it wasn't limp either.

"Sherlock? What are you doing?"

Sherlock didn't react and after a few more moments of deafening, rhythmic music John rounded the supine figure and knelt down in a safe distance.

He had briefly considered just switching the noise off, but if Sherlock was doing this deliberately he would not react well to such a brutal interruption. So he hunched down directly in the line of sight of this flatmate, should he sit up, and tipped an outstretched arm.

Sherlock jerked upwards, eyes wide in surprise and John raised his hands in a surrendering gesture. Sherlock's eyes opened for a moment, just to make sure it was John who had entered the room, then closed again, though he didn't lay down again.

"Hey! _What_ are you doing?" the former soldier yelled, trying to make the situation less awkward.

"Listening to music, obviously." Sherlock uttered in a distracted voice, barely audible to John.

A few moments later the piece faded out and a new one started, making the floor vibrate from the bass sounds of the intro.

Sherlock had a really expensive sound system in his room, John knew that, but this was the first time he actually heard it.

For a moment John was afraid he'd be ignored and that they'd soon have an argument about proper behaviour when it comes to neighbours, but then Sherlock took a deep breath and started to fumble for the remote, which was next to him on the wooden floor.

Sherlock was sure John wouldn't understand this all and decided he needed to stop the session and hope John would just let it alone, interpret it as another one of his oddities, he hurried to stand up, and fought the dizziness that followed sudden movement after a longer period of not moving.

He dialled down the volume, slowly, to a moderate level, and headed for the kitchen, he felt John's curious gaze follow him and decided to make some tea and start an evasion manoeuvre.

"How was the trip?"

The strategy was spoiled when he swayed, which alarmed the doctor even more than Sherlock lying on the ground. A moment later a steady hand held Sherlock's upper arm and John asked, "Have you eaten?"

"Yes."

"Are you dizzy?"

"Happens when the music is loud, sometimes. Or when I dial it down to fast."

"Really? Is that why you were on the ground?"

"No."

"Why then?"

Sherlock was absolutely sure the doctor would not let this go without an explanation, so he could as well give a short one, get over with it fast. John had - up to now - been quite patient with the many things he did different, had in fact often listened or just watched, neither tried to break him loose of his behaviours or judged him, as long as it didn't harm anyone or his property, at least.

"To feel the vibrations more intensely," he explained. John deserved explanations, and sometimes Sherlock even liked that he listened to them, but not now.

John raised his eyebrows, "What was this music?"

"Hans Zimmer," Sherlock mumbled.

"Never heard of him," John answered.

"Even with your rudimentary musical background you should, he makes movie soundtracks, some good ones, I might add."

"Oh, that's why it sounded familiar…" John guessed, "I thought you didn't like movies?"

"What has the music to do with liking movies?… Liking the music and the film it was made for does not relate, the question is stupid."

"Right."

"I didn't like the movies, but the soundtracks of the stupid movies you forced me to watch, were interesting sometimes."

"Really? So you liked the soundtracks."

"I just said they were _interesting,_ not that I liked them. Really, John, you need to learn to listen, don't fill in the gaps with your guesses. It's the same with observing and seeing."

The silence was still kind of horrible on Sherlock's mind, he should have taken his time to get out of the music, now he felt nauseous because of the sudden change. He poured the water over the tea into the pot to distract himself, then inhaled the smell of freshly boiled water over the dry leaves deeply.

"Why were you doing it like this?"

"Doing what?"

"Listening to music like that?" John sensed this was not random, "Case?"

"No," Sherlock was reluctant to share this bit, obviously.

After a moment of hesitation he added, "Because it feels good… How was your trip?" He started to rummage in the fridge.

The fact that Sherlock was asking about his journey made John even more aware that this was something he wanted to investigate further. Was Sherlock Holmes in fact embarrassed? That would be a first. It looked quite a bit like it. Caught in some act might be more accurate, though.

"Good," John said, "So was this what would fit your description of 'fun'?"

Sherlock looked a bit puzzled about the question, which made the other man smile at him encouragingly.

"You enjoyed listening to music, right… so enjoying, equals fun."

"If you're asking if I liked the expericence,… I did," Sherlock kind of stammered.

"You turned it up so much the ground started to vibrate," John stated.

"Yes."

"Because you liked the vibrations or what?" John meant it as a joke, but Sherlock replied,

"To make it a whole-body-experience… heightens the… pleasure."

"Oh… So you did do it for pleasure?"

"No, I did it because I needed it."

"You do it like this, often, then?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He did not want to have this conversation, this was something private and he felt getting lost in not being able to be understood. However John phrased his questions, they felt wrong.

"Sherlock, what does it feel like when you do it like that?" John went into it.

"Sometimes…" Sherlock started, "…I don't know… It feels… pure."

"Pure?"

"Some kind of music is like mental water, clear and crystalline, liquid… it washes over me."

John met Sherlock's eyes, who looked a bit like expecting to be told he's nuts any moment.

"So, you're on the ground… so it can - for lack of a better word - … flow better?"

"I don't know… It just feels like I _need_ to lie flat to feel it more intensely. Yes, so it can flow more freely, I guess… and to make not only my mind feel the ecstasy but extend the feeling to my whole body."

"Your mind feel ecstasy?… I thought that was body-thing?"

"I'm not an expert when it comes to sense my body. My perception is different."

"I know, that's why I'm so curious here, wanted to hear your description."

"Oh," Sherlock just breathed, "Why?"

"Because I want to know how you sense things. It's different, it's interesting. You have… kind of heightened senses."

"I have normal senses, I am just able to use them, in contrast to all the stupid people who don't."

"No, Sherlock! Your perception is _way_ more intense than normal people's. I'm a doctor, I know such things."

"Fine."

"So does it works with any music, or does it have to be instrumental, or Zimmer, or what?"

"No."

"No, what?"

"Needs a large amount of semitones and a melody that… flows."

"So, it could even work with, I don't know, pop songs?"

"Maybe, but most pop songs have the disadvantage of being simple and superficial, lack the interesting patterns most classic music has. I prefer music that has a certain… complexity. But overall, yes. Even works with some songs from the techno genre, as much embarrassing as this is."

"Oh…" John grinned, probably imagining Sherlock listening to techno.

"Does it have to be so loud?"

"Medium to loud, yes."

"And was that 'loud' a moment before?"

"Yes, very."

"Why?"

"So it cleanses."

When John frowns Sherlock adds, "It doesn't if it's not loud enough."

"So, are Zimmer's works what one might call your 'favourite music' then?"

"No. I just said that a few moments before. I don't do _favourite music_."

"I don't understand, I thought you like it."

"Sometimes, depends."

"On what exactly?"

"Multiple reasons, quite complex."

John rolled his eyes. It was obvious Sherlock was not really eager to talk about this.

"You have good headphones, why don't you use them?"

"I… I need the music to… fill the room. To surround me, wash over me, with the headphones the sound feels like it is produced directly in my head… but I need the sounds to move through the room, be aware of the single instruments' movements around me, it's like a line on a heartbeat monitor… that moves up and down and forth… but in 3D, through the room, taking my mind with the movement. Experience the colours of the tones. They all move through and over me, and…"

"Yes?" John encouraged him.

"…touch me," Sherlock lowered his gaze, seemed to be embarrassed once more, and took out the tea leaves from the pot.

"Wow," John just said, "Is that why you play the violin?" He had never heard someone describe music like this, and right now he felt kind of blind to have never experienced it like this. He wanted to hear more.

"No."

John was even more surprised that his flatmate disagreed, "No?"

"No," and Sherlock vanished into the living room with his cup of tea, booting his computer.

Sherlock's affection for music, maybe even passion, when it came to the violin, was one more mystery of the person Sherlock was. John had heard him play before on several occasions - hard not to when living with the consulting detective - and suspected he expressed emotional things with music he'd not even know the words for, but that was only an assumption. It seemed a way of communication, though, it unfortunately was a one way street, because John's lack of understanding, and now he decided he wanted to change that.

But at this moment Sherlock seemed to have shut a virtual door, all further questions about the topic were ignored.

…

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…

 _A/N:_

 _Constructive criticism welcome._

 _Please review._


	2. Chapter 2

**Lessons in Friendship 9 - Rhythms of the mind**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands_ _and no profit is being made_ _._

 _.  
_

 _The events of this chapter take place somewhere between TBB and TGG._

 _Since I was nicely asked, I just wanted so say: I am not a fan of Zimmer, not a fan of any singer, band, orchestra, or whatever kind of musical artists there are. I really love certain songs, though._

 _I might add that I highly admire Zimmer's ability to choose and compose the right music for the right pictures, with a sensitivity and precision that gives me goose bumps sometimes, how he amplifies good film editing is awesome. But the few songs I like I prefer to watch the music with the footage of the original orchestra playing it, their movements, hive-mind-actions and silent communication is what really makes me shudder in awe. Oh, maybe I should add a chapter about that :)_

 _There is one of his pieces though that causes me kind of ecstasy, but since there will be an entire chapter about that kind of music later I won't reveal too much about this._

 _So, just in case I didn't make that clear enough - there was a review explaining to me that Sherlock would not go for this kind of music, and I was a bit surprised, because I didn't even try to imply he's a fan of anything or likes something in particular, he just uses this music for a certain purpose because it happens to fit a need._

 _So, there are already nine chapters for this roughly written, it's not really about music, more about perception of sound. To underline this I decided to publish this chapter earlier than originally planned, it was originally numbered part six._

 _…_

* * *

 _…_

 **Loud noises**

The first time John was confronted with Sherlock's aversion to loud noises he didn't think much about it, in fact, he forgot a few moments later about it, until it happened a second time. Only then did he remember.

The first time they had hunted down a man who had robbed schools of their newly installed computers.

When Sherlock had held him down on the ground after they both had toppled over down the last few steps of a stairway that led into a cellar floor, Lestrade cuffed the man, who then started yelling into Sherlock's ears. Screaming at the top of his lungs obscenities and insults directly into Sherlock's face, simply to be an annoyance.

Sherlock winced and tensed up, and with disgust on his face, was a bit harsher than usual in movements and handling the man and what he said.

The doctor had thought is must be about the things the man said or his rude behaviour, but in hindsight he realised it was the pure volume next to Sherlock's ears.

The second time it happened was when they were at a steam locomotive event. It was a nice sunny day and they were following someone through large crowds of visitors passing by big black old steam engines.

That was until one of the monstrosities blew it's whistle, right next to them.

Sherlock was walking in front of the doctor, three metres ahead and suddenly he stumbled, right into an attendant who stood nearby. The first moment John thought he had been shot or stabbed or something.

Alarmed, he started to ran and when he reached his flatmate saw that his face was quite pale.

"What is it, Sherlock? Where are you hurt?" he lifted away Sherlock's coat to look for bleeding.

Sherlock looked disoriented and didn't even insulted the attendant who had steadied and touched him without asking first. The man let go, asking repeatedly what was wrong and was reluctant to let go.

"Hey, answer me, are you hurt?" John raised his voice.

The consulting detective winced and shook his head.

John took over, knowing how very much Sherlock didn't like being touched.

"It's okay, I'm his doctor, he's fine," he assured the surprised man, just to make him leave them alone, not because he believed it himself.

"Come on, let's sit down over there," he suggested and started to lead his friend towards a wooden bench a few metres away.

Sherlock shook his head once more, vehemently this time.

"What? You need to sit down, you're barely able to stand," John tried to convince him.

"Get away from the noise… the people," Sherlock muttered.

"What?…" the doctor didn't understand. "Are you about to get sick? Will you make it that far? I mean, it's a few minutes walk to get away far enough."

This time Sherlock nodded.

They made it, although Sherlock did lean onto the doctor now and then.

As soon as they had found a spot in the back of the area Sherlock sat down on a large stone. He still looked ill and was dizzy.

"So, what was this about?"

"Shut up, John," Sherlock said in a defeated and low voice, no spite in it, more a plea than an order.

John did, sensing the distress the other man was in.

The consulting detective needed almost ten minutes until his breathing slowed down and his face started to get some colour back. Finally he spoke.

"The noise caused… kind of… pain."

"What does that mean exactly?"

"It really hurt… and I would be tremendously grateful if you could lower your voice."

"Oh," John just made, reminded once more of how sensible Sherlock's hearing must be.

"Happens sometimes, nothing to worry about, it just caught me off guard, which is stupid, considering I should be well aware steam engines produce those sounds every now and then."

"Are you telling me it wouldn't have hurt that much if you expected it? Because that makes not a lot of sense."

"Er… No."

"Does this happen often?"

"So, we lost him," Sherlock looked disappointed with himself, maybe even angry. "We'll never find him again with so many people. We could stay at the entrance, hope that he'll leave soon."

"Are you changing topics?"

"Yes."

They did survey the exit, but the man didn't leave, or at least they didn't see him leave.

It took another week to solve the case.

.

 **Aftermath of another explosion**

The first time Sherlock was caught in an explosion John was not present to witness the aftermath. He had hurried home after spending the night at Sarah's when he had seen the news. Sherlock looked fine at his arrival, plugging the strings of his violin and kind of hugging the instrument in a posture he sometimes used while attuning her, but only for the few moments it usually took, that he held her longer that way should have told John he was not fine at all, but back then he hadn't given it any more attention.

The next time there was an explosion he was there to experience the aftermath.

The case had been quite boring over all, even when it came to John's standards, but the end turned out to be action-loaded.

A kiosk owner, a middle aged woman, had been killed by a gang that collected protection money from small businesses in the area. Lestrade and the Yarders were still securing the scene, which was about two hundred metres away from her kiosk and across a large parking area in an industrial zone. It was Sunday morning and due to the weekend the place was deserted.

John, Sherlock and Lestrade were about to inspect the small over packed cabin and headed across the parking space when suddenly an explosion disturbed the silence of the morning.

The shock wave almost blew them off their feet.

The kiosk was transformed into an house-sized ball of fire momentarily, before debris started to rain down around them a few moments later.

John had reflexively turned away from the explosion and the blow made him land on his hands and knees.

He bit his teeth, concentrating to prevent a flashback, he was still prone to them.

Then he turned around to check for his two companions.

The blow had not been forceful enough to cause serious injuries by itself, and the larger debris rained down halfway between them and the explosion.

Though smaller pieced might also cause gashes that could be dangerous at the wrong places.

Lestrade was also getting to his feet, looking dishevelled but unharmed.

Sherlock stood with his back to the fire, as if he had just turned his back and not deemed it necessary to take cover, or he had just been faster to straighten up again.

John stepped over to Greg, who was closer to him, and looked him in the eyes, the DI nodded an, 'I'm okay,' into his direction and John turned to his flatmate.

When he had stepped in front of him so he was able to see his face he realised, to his surprise, that Sherlock's eyes were closed tight and he was quite pale.

"Sherlock?" John asked, now worried.

Sherlock's posture screamed 'pain', he was tense and barely breathing.

"Sherlock?" John tried again, louder this time.

Was he hurt? Could he hear him? They weren't close enough to suffer even temporary hearing damage, though it was certainly unpleasant and John's ears were ringing.

"Hey, you're okay?" John reached out and touched the other man's shoulder briefly, aware he didn't like to be touched, but also aware sometimes he alone was allowed to.

Sherlock didn't react immediately, it took more than five seconds until he laboriously drew an deeper breath and then let it out through his closed teeth.

"Where do you hurt?" John looked up and down the tall figure, but there was nothing except the now slowly sinking down dust. Maybe Sherlock had fallen and sprained his ankle or something?

"I'm fine, John, thank you for your concern, but I'm not in need of any assistance," Sherlock said when he finally spoke, his voice hoarse.

"Cut the crap," John snapped, very aware that this kind of politeness and over-kindness was only used by the detective on rare occasions. This was not normal, Sherlock was trying to hide something, barely holding it together, as it seemed.

He did not react to the curse for another ten seconds.

"John, please ignore this. I have no problem a physician could help me with. Look for people that might be actually injured," he gulped several times and John could not ignore the fact that Sherlock looked like somebody who felt sick.

The consulting detective started to walk and headed back towards the small group that was still gathered around the body, some had ran towards them after the explosion, but Lestrade had waved them back. John and Lestrade followed the other man.

When they reached the agitated chatting police staff Sherlock seemed to have battled whatever was bugging him and looked a lot steadier and normal again.

It didn't last long, because when moments later two large fire trucks with blazing sirens rushed past them John saw Sherlock cover his ears, and then pant with an open mouth and his eyelids flattered, this looked like he was in serious pain.

Sherlock turned away and started to run into the opposite direction.

John and Lestrade shared irritated looks.

Was he about to leave?

John hurried after him.

After about two hundred metres Sherlock turned into the shadow of a back street that was not illuminated by the bright early morning sun.

John followed him and had to blink about the sudden change from brightness to what felt like half-darkness.

When he heard the obvious sound of retching he hurried to catch up with his friend.

It took some moments until his eyes had adjusted to the dim light but then he saw Sherlock, leaned sideways against a wide concrete pole, hunched over and bringing up his morning coffee.

John stopped a few feet behind him, making sure he was okay but also giving him some privacy.

It was over fast and John spoke.

"Can I do anything?"

"Go away."

"That's the one thing I won't do, so don't waste your time."

"Shut up, then."

"No need to be rude."

Sherlock groaned softly.

"I'm not. All sounds hurt right now, so please stop making any."

Sherlock had let his head sink low and was softly panting.

When John's phone suddenly rang, it was not a loud or particular annoying sound, Sherlock winced and covered his ears again.

When he saw it was Lestrade, John hurried to pick up, the man was probably worried, too.

He straightened up and turned away to step out of Sherlock's hearing range, but it was obviously too late, Sherlock gagged again.

John was not sure what was happening and told Lestrade to keep his distance and give him the chance to sort the situation out.

He hung up and waited.

And waited.

Sherlock didn't move.

He was like a statue, only minutely shifting his weight from one leg to the other from time to time.

After almost fifteen minutes John once more dared to step closer.

"Sherlock, do you know what caused this? " he asked in a low voice.

Sherlock nodded.

"What can I do? Call a cab?"

"No. No cars yet."

"Want to go home?"

"Yeah," Sherlock breathed, "but…"

"What can I do, Sherlock, tell me."

"Go, find a store and get cotton wool or ear plugs or any other kind of ear protection, otherwise I'll be stuck here for at least another hour… and could you try to find some water?"

"Okay," John agreed, glad Sherlock had for once managed to utter what he needed. But the doctor decided he wouldn't leave, so he only moved out of the small street to call Greg again.

The DI agreed to send someone to the nearest drugstore or ask the ambulance crew, who must have arrived silently some time ago.

Sherlock had straightened up when the doctor returned and was now sitting on a low wall. John watched him from a distance for any sign of more problems, but Sherlock seemed to just breathe and keep his eyes shut.

Only three or four minutes later a young medic came around the corner and handed him a bottle of water and a package of disposable earplugs, then left again.

Sherlock gratefully took the bright orange plugs and - with practiced ease - formed them and put them into his ears, then washed his mouth with the water.

John automatically spoke louder, knowing he was wearing the plugs, and Sherlock winced once more.

"John, yelling at me totally counteracts what the plugs are supposed to do. Could you please speak in a _normal_ intensity, I'm not hearing impaired wearing them, in fact I might now hear as a normal person does," Sherlock explained, a bit unnerved, as if he was implying John should be able to figure out that much on his own.

They headed home some time later and Sherlock wore the plugs for the rest of the day, he once more refused to talk about how he experienced auditory signals and John dropped it because Sherlock seemed ashamed or unnerved or whatever.

.

A few days later John bought a large pack of separately packed disposable earplugs and put one package in every jacket he had.

A few weeks later John came home and Sherlock almost jumped him with a request.

"John, I need the precision of your hands."

"Oh?"

Sherlock hovered while he got rid of his coat, then held out a small package.

"What is it?" John wanted to know.

"Silicone plastique."

"Okay, what do you want me to do?"

"You need to fit this into my auditory canal and my auricle."

"What?" The doctor stared at the box Sherlock had just handed him. It said 'Custom moulded earplugs', "All right."

"I bought earplugs, why this?"

"You did?" Sherlock looked almost appalled.

"Yeah, figured you might need them."

"Really, that's…"

"Nice of me?" John suggested.

"…awkward," Sherlock finished.

"Why? Because I decided to respect your need or be prepared for emergencies?"

"…" Sherlock just took air, but then shut his mouth.

"Because that's what I did, I wanted to be prepared, to spare you pain."

Sherlock's gaze wandered around the room in head-spinning zick-zacks, the way he did when his thoughts were chasing each other faster than he could express.

"What do you need me to do?" John tried to make the situation less tense.

"Ehm… Mix the white mass with the blue compound and then form a… thing that fits into my outer ear… Read the instructions… I want this for… for emergencies."

John realised this was a tremendous prove of trust he was just granted, to touch Sherlock in such a way.

If he wanted, John was sure Sherlock could have done it alone, but his friend had included him in the process.

"Okay, what do I have to do?" John agreed.

.

Half an hour later Sherlock was sitting on the kitchen table and John was leaned over the instructions for use while he pugged the two materials into each other.

Sherlock suddenly disappeared into the living room.

"Where are you going? This needs to be done quite fast, it will set within a few minutes."

"Therefore I'm already here."

"What?" John followed him.

Sherlock had lain down on the sofa, a throw pillow under his neck, his left ear accessible and well lit by the standard lamp. A paper towel with tools was on the coffee table, several ball-shaped pluggers, that were obviously from a dental practice, and various other forms of modelling tools were ready to use.

"Right," John said and while continuing to knead he sat down on the table.

"Have you put in some cotton wool to protect your eardrums?"

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes, though his jaw was clenched.

"Proceed, I trust you."

…

* * *

 _…_

 _A/N:_

 _Before anyone asks, yes I always carry earplugs in my backpack._

 _I have heightened senses, and to be honest it's no fun at all, it really sucks!_

 _The few good things that come with this are meant to be the topic of this fic, but therefore I need to describe the bad side effects first._

 _Thank you for reading._

 _Please give me some feedback._


	3. Chapter 3 - The Sea - Part 1

**Lessons in Friendship 9 - Rhythms of the mind**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

.

* * *

.

 **Chapter 3**

 **The Sea - Part 1**

It was early august and it had been warm the weeks before, but now it was cooling down and a summer storm was expected to hit Britain within the next few hours.

Although John wore a light shirt and had encouraged Sherlock to do the same - the detective choose a light silk one - he still wore his coat, which was not at all appropriate for the still sweltry and muggy breeze. It was as if the man just didn't care about the temperature. It wasn't just odd in the summer, in winter, Sherlock tended to wear to little in the doctor's opinion. John was sure his inner thermometer must be out of joint.

Sherlock had arranged a Landrover waiting for them at a small village near the coast.

The case had been tough and kind of chewy up to now and the detective seemed to regret having accepted it.

John was not sure where they were going. But it didn't matter, he was currently enjoying the airflow from the moving car, it was delightful, they had the windows open wide.

The coat was on the backseat right now but John was sure as soon as they would leave the car Sherlock would take it with him.

The car had air conditioning, but Sherlock hated those and informed him once more that he preferred to sweat rather than endure the stiff and itching air it produced.

During their drive the sky darkened and a light wind picked up, John was very glad he had chosen the light trousers, too.

The day had been exhausting, he felt soaked and the wind in his hair was pure bliss after the sticky air of the rooms they had stayed in during the investigations.

When they had entered the car John realised it was the exact same one they had at their disposal in Baskerville.

"Is this yours?" he had asked.

In Baskerville, he had assumed it was a rental, though there were several pieces of equipment that seemed to be customised.

"No."

His friend was obviously not eager to clarify, John noted.

"Why is it wherever we need it?" he probed.

"I ordered it," the tone was so unnerved John decided to let it go.

.

They drove for half an hour, until Sherlock suddenly stopped at the middle of nowhere - on an already narrow coastal road - and turned into a small path, barely wide enough for the bulky car.

The further they went, the more overgrown the path became. He wondered how Sherlock knew where he was going, he hadn't used the satnav.

The sun was now hidden behind heavy and low ominous clouds and the weather was now windy, but not noticeable colder than before. John's gaze went to his watch, it was also almost 18.15 which meant almost two hours of sunlight left.

"Where are we going?"

"Shore."

Great, John loved monosyllabic answers.

Sherlock stopped the car a few metres further and exited it without warning, then continued by foot, of course he slipped into his coat while walking.

John followed, the long high growth on both sides of the path grazed John's hands when he followed his friend.

After a few minutes they had reached the shore, which consisted of a wide stripe of large bulky, sharp edged stones that went out into the sea, a rock groyne.

The waves clashed into them several metres ahead.

Large dark clouds could be seen on the horizon and those themselves where a spectacle.

Sherlock - with his handmade shoes - started to climb onto the rocks, heading towards the water.

John shook his head in denial, wondering if he really wanted to follow the detective, who climbed over the uneven surface with the grace of a cat, using his hands and feet. His coat moving in the wind.

The air smelled like saltwater and the sea.

John briefly wondered what they were doing here and if Sherlock knew where he was going, he surely looked as if he was heading somewhere.

He waited and observed.

To his surprise his friend didn't went far out but suddenly sat down, on a wet stone, not far away from the spray.

That was when John decided to follow him.

This was turning into exercise and he lacked all the skills climbing over the rocks the detective had shown; at least the other man didn't see, his back was to John. His shoulder and leg were not making the task any easier.

When the doctor came closer, he saw that one edge of the coat was hanging in the water in a puddle on one of the rocks.

He raised his eyebrows, once more wondering if Sherlock owned more than one piece of this remarkable piece of clothing because he was often quite reckless with his high quality garments. Though they usually reappeared looking neat and clean again whatever the man did to them.

He knew better than to disturb Sherlock when he was thinking, and this looked pretty much like intense thinking.

But was he really - at this very moment - concentrating on the case?

Probably, Sherlock lacked appreciation of beautiful locations.

When John reached him, the consultant was still staring out at the sea, his gaze distant.

The doctor just waited for something to happen.

Nothing happened.

Five minutes later John decided to sit down, too.

He found a relatively flat spot and sat down about two metres away from the unmoving statue of a consulting detective.

He could as well savour the moment if the other man was busy, he didn't get to enjoy the ocean very often.

The sea was beautiful and overall quite loud at the moment, rushing against the boulders.

Something was building up.

John hadn't been this close to the ocean since before Afghanistan.

He watched the constant movement of the waves, it was a lovely scene.

When Sherlock suddenly moved he flinched.

The other man bend over and removed his shoes, then his socks and then slid down towards the water a bit more.

He placed his bare feet onto the cold wet and probably unpleasantly rough surface of another stone.

John looked closer and saw his flatmate's eyes were closed.

This was the moment when John wondered if this was neither about deducing nor observing, so he decided to speak.

"Er,… what are you doing right now?" he asked in a low and slow voice.

He was sure he had spoken loud enough to be heard, Sherlock's hearing was quite sensitive, but he was ignored.

He knew this mode of not-speaking, and he had learned not to urge communication.

So he just leaned back, with his hands on the rock behind him, and enjoyed the moment.

.

He sat there for almost half an hour, then decided to have a walk. He slowly stood up and climbed over the rocks down to the sandy area of the beach, he needed almost ten minutes to get there, but then he also got rid of his shoes, rolled up his trouser legs and enjoyed a slow walk down the waterline with bare feet.

It was refreshing, and so much better than risking wet shoes, it felt nice, the water moving around his feet, would have been a great day for a swim. In the far distance he saw some people on the beach.

He frequently looked back to check if Sherlock had started to move, but he didn't, at least not for another half hour, and then John turned back, with some see shells in one hand and his shoes in the other.

.

The sea always provided interesting sensations.

Sherlock had always liked to sense it, not that he'd leave London for it, but when he had the chance he'd use it, it was a one of the few nice thing.

The air was fresh, it's sharp smooth taste and the soft sound of the waves against the shore were soothing something he couldn't name, only knew if felt wound up.

It was long ago that he had visited the sea with company, must have been in his childhood, with his family.

Since Mycroft spoiled everything positive within minutes, he had learned to hide things that feel good at age nine.

He had been to Kent two summers ago for a case, but on that spring day he had been too busy to go see the ocean.

The wind moving his hair and the taste of briny in his nose and mouth were distressing but enlightening at the same time, sometimes he could dwell on the pleasant wildness of it.

On sunny days the reflections on the water disturbed him, gave him headaches, hurt his sight; he preferred the weather to be a bit rough and dark.

Now John was sitting behind him, which turned out to be not too unpleasant. He was silent, didn't move too much and didn't try to make small talk. He was in fact just sitting there and Sherlock was able to concentrate for a moment to soak up the atmosphere of the place.

It was so much better to have John around than anyone else.

The movement of the waves made the piles of large rocks vibrate under him, it was intense to feel their force.

Sherlock had slipped off his shoes to be able to feel the impact of the water more intensely.

He knew the surface would probably be unpleasant to walk on, but the pain would ground him, sharpening the other sensations.

As long as it wasn't too much it could heighten the experience to a level that might floor everything he didn't want to sense.

It was a fine line between the pain destroying delight and intensifying it, but he needed to wander that fine path for a bit right now.

The fact that John would not pollute the experience was relaxing. Maybe he'd speak after a while, but that, Sherlock could easily ignore, and John was too kind to poke in moments like this, at least hadn't been since after the second month he had moved in.

.

When John climbed back up the rocks and returned to his flatmate, the other man was moving slightly, a minute rocking movement most people would have overlooked.

"Sherlock… what are you doing?" he asked again in a low and slow voice, sure Sherlock was back with him.

"Sensing the sea," Sherlock answered immediately, so not in the mind palace and no longer ignoring him.

The doctor grinned.

Was this really what _it_ looked like? Sherlock _enjoying_ something?

If he had been asked, he'd have denied that his - most of the times - hyperactive flatmate was even capable of doing so. He was sure Sherlock had never really learned to relax, always thinking, never slowing down. He despaired when there was nothing to do.

"What are you sensing?" he wanted to hear more about his experience.

"Everything," Sherlock exhaled.

"Care to be more specific?"

"Why?"

John felt caught when Sherlock opened his eyes and narrowed his eyes.

"Don't be so suspicious, I was just enjoying the sea and wondered if you were doing the same."

"Oh, small talk, then?"

"No, friendship talk, wanted to know how you experienced it."

"Why don't you just observe the sea yourself, then?"

"You don't get it, do you? I wanted _you_ to describe _your_ sensations. I know how mine feel, no use in asking for those. I want to know about the difference, I learned there is one, so I'm curious," John explained.

"Sorry. Talking kind of makes it less… gratifying."

"Tell me later, then, in the car?"

"Maybe," Sherlock muttered and closed his eyes again, he was breathing a bit deeper than usual the doctor noted.

.

Ten minutes later they returned to the car and Sherlock started the engine, they drove backwards in an amazing straight line for almost three minutes until he found a spot where he could turn the car.

"What was that about?"

"Driving backwards? The road was too small, would you have done it differently?"

"Nice try. Our pleasure trip to the shore," John rolled his eyes.

"Wasn't that obvious?"

"No, not really."

"I was enjoying the sea."

"Oh, could you… I don't know… explain how you do that."

"Nnno."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to."

"You know - as your friend - I sometimes really wonder how your perception works and I would love to hear about it in detail."

"What for?"

"I just told you, why is that so strange?"

"How could that… be a friendship thing?" Sherlock snorted.

"By letting me in. Insight might deepen a friendship."

"Or destroy it."

"Seriously? You really think that after living with you for over a year there might be worse things than I have already seen?" John tried to joke.

"You have no idea," Sherlock deadpanned and his expression made John backpedal in surprise.

"Well, I'm not one of your obnoxious uni peers. I ask this because I want to understand, not to exploit the knowledge to hassle you. By now you should have understood that. I don't do that."

Sherlock kept a moment of uneasy silence, which made John a bit worried because his friend didn't immediately confirmed that he knew.

"I don't ask you to tell me while you concentrate on relishing it, but you could tell me how you sense it afterwards? Take me through, now?"

Sherlock frowned, "Maybe next time."

John briefly wondered if that was a nice try of rejection, before he remembered that Sherlock didn't do nice.

"Alright," he agreed.

"Do it in turns?" Sherlock's voice was careful now, maybe even hesitating.

John raised his eyebrows, this meant Sherlock actually intended to do it.

"Alright… I thought you knew how 'normal' people's perception works, always complaining about it?"

"I do, but not directly. I researched and know that _it_ is unreliable and superficial in comparison with mine, due to analysing witness statements for years… Because whenever I asked someone to describe it, people either made fun of me, wondered how stupid I am or got pissed. Polite individuals simply walk away. The only person that might have explained it to me in my youth was Mycroft, but, as you probably have noticed, he's not a reliable source - not honest enough. Also, his perception is quite similar to mine."

John chuckled.

"So, that's why you're not eager to share, bad experiences with your way of sensing things?"

"My senses were always hypersensitive on many different level… but at the same time some perceptions are hyposensitive, which together sounds unbelievable to normal people and they express it by punishing me for lying or being stubborn, perfectly logical assumption from their dull mindsets, I fear. They also tend to shift from hyposensitivity to hypersensitivity in certain situations, or blur together in an unsettling way."

John stored this and decided to give it a rest for now.

.

In the following three weeks the crime turned into a case and they visited the sea on a few more occasions.

John started to describe to Sherlock about how he sensed it and what it felt like, without being asked, just to signal his readiness and remind the other man he was still interested and willing to do this. As a doctor, this also interested him from a medical point of view.

Sherlock listened, but didn't ask back or interacted with him, he was just passive, didn't share any of his own perceptions.

.

* * *

 _._

 _A/N:_

 _Please leave some feedback. Constructive criticism welcome._


	4. Chapter 4 - The Sea - Part 2

**Lessons in Friendship 9 - Rhythms of the mind**

 _Disclaimer: Sherlock, John and all other mentioned characters belong to BBC, Mr. Moffat, Mr. Gatiss or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I just borrowed them for fun. I wrote this for my personal delight and improving my English, no copyright infringement intended. No money changed hands and no profit is being made._

 _._

* * *

 ** _._**

 **Chapter 4**

 **The sea - Part 2**

In the beginning of autumn they stayed in Dorset for a case nearby, it was still quite warm and when the case was finished, John convinced Sherlock to go to Chesil beach. Which - from a distance - looked like an unusual long sand dune in the sea, it was close to the shore, but had water on both sides, for miles.*

They walked down the long strip of pebbles, Sherlock refused to get his coat of. They went by a small group of anglers in silence.

Once they had passed them, there seemed to be just empty beach for miles, no one to be seen. The beach was mercifully private, it was a cloudy and misty day, though not cold with the occasional sunny interval and a medium breeze.

"London is noisy, a cacophony of dissonant sounds," Sherlock suddenly uttered, out of nowhere.

"I thought you love London," John hurried to understand the situation.

"I do. Could you listen, I didn't say I don't. The fact that I _like_ London is making the ordeal easier but it _is_ quite a loud place and this is one of its disadvantages. But it can be handled by suitable equipment."

"Equipment?"

"Do you hear London inside 221b?"

"Now that you mention it… not so much, no. Was worse when I moved in, got used to it, maybe."

"You didn't, not solely. After the explosion I made sure the new windows where as soundproof as possible… and Mycroft made sure they are also bullet proof."

"What?… Blimey, that must have cost a fortune."

"The first, no, it is not that unusual anymore, noise attenuation is a common feature in modern windows. The latter, yes."

John chuckled.

"Overall you are also quite quiet within these walls, I have never lived with anybody who was as quiet as you are… I mean, you can be a whirlwind of action, rocking the house, but you mostly keep a low level of noise. Of course the violin has its volume, but it's different. The ambient of sound you create is different from other people."

"Getting used to sensual input is difficult," Sherlock continued as if the other man hadn't spoken. "That's why I detect so many things. My brain can't tally them, mark them as 'known', which a normal person does constantly. I am transfixed by details. This is not happening by choice, but it is very helpful for detective work, though bad for daily life. The impact on daily life is more interfering than most people can imagine. I don't get used to things, at least not to a level or in a speed that is useful. It's rather annoying as well as exhausting."

Sherlock was not looking at him while he spoke, and the doctor was sure this was difficult for him, exposing a weakness most people couldn't even imagine.

"Fading things down or blocking them out is almost impossible. Sounds I like are easier to handle. I can try to control perceiving them, but it's always difficult, always work to do it… Satisfied?"

John briefly wondered how this explanation could by any means be complete, for him it raised more questions than it answered.

"No, elaborate," John used Sherlock's staccato style, but his friend didn't get the joke.

They had walked quite a distance by now. The consultant was not a man who knew how to bimble leisurely. His posture was stiff and he had his hands behind his back while he was walking. On the round pebbles that formed the beach it must be quite a balance act.

"The rhythm influences if sounds are perceived _good_ or _bad_ in certain circumstances. Natural sounds are overall easier to handle, because they have organic rhythms or none at all. Some natural sounds soothe my mind."

John raised his eyebrows, such a remark from Sherlock Holmes?

"I was rather disappointed when - as a child - I realised that others will never experience the beauty and intensity of my sensory world. It had been always like this for me, it was a shock to learn others perceived different."

"So you _are_ able to enjoy it!"

Sherlock ignored that statement and John tried to put the things his flatmate had said together. By now it seemed to be just a random collection of pieces of information stripped of their background.

"In my youth my perception had more negative sides than positive ones and I not able to handling them satisfactorily. The… sensations caused by loud noises were devastating, sometimes I was unnerved by the sound of my own blinking and kept from sleep by the movement of air I felt on my skin that was caused by my own breathing. Not being able to share this facet of my existence frustrated me. Trying to explain it brought more problems than good. I soon learned it made me seem lunatic and odd and that the better option was to keep it to myself. Though at times it became so intense I vomited or shut down."

Sherlock suddenly stopped, blocking John's paths. He slipped out of his coat and for a moment John wondered if his flatmate would just get naked and have a swim.

At home he seemed to have no sense of appropriate state of dress. After what Sherlock had just told him John wondered if not wearing clothes had to do with Sherlock being unable to stand the sensations it caused on the skin, Sherlock also wore his t-shirts inside out because the seams were annoying him.

"Sit down," the detective suddenly ordered.

He - not really gently - pushed his flatmate down near the waterline.

"What are you doing?" John was not happy about the rude movement and barely managed to keep himself from falling and bruising his bum.

Once he sat down he noted that the pebbles he was sitting on weren't really comfortable.

Sherlock sat down besides him with a heavy thud, his face clearly displaying he was miserable.

John stared and tried to interpret his expression and the situation.

No, it's not anger, more like uneasiness. He just doesn't like what he is doing, but doing it nevertheless.

"Lie down, close your eyes," Sherlock had his elbows on his raised knees and was still not looking at him. For another moment John just stared at the other man in surprise about the odd order.

He wanted to resist and curse, then he just reclined.

It wasn't comfortable, neither Sherlock's tone, nor the slightly wet pebbles in the misty breeze. His feet must be only two or three metres away from the moving water.

"I can't simulate how light hurts the eyes and how it pierces into the brain with needles of brightness without hurting you, so I won't try. Therefore just keep your eyes closed, might help intensifying the other sensations."

Oh, were they doing what John thought they were doing?

"The ground is hard, I can feel every one of those stones pressing into my backside, they hurt… Oh, we should probably do it from _your_ perspective, but I'm not sure I can manage that. You'll have to feel what I describe."

Sherlock too lay down, with a roughness that made John wince.

"If it is all so intense for you, why aren't you more careful with your body?" John asked.

"Sometimes I need it to hurt, to feel myself, to ground myself… or to try to make my body get used to the sensation and to dull it."

"But you said it doesn't work, why do you do it nevertheless?"

"It doesn't. I don't know. Stupidity probably."

John grunted in disapproval.

"The stones press into my skin, where there are bones close to the surface, it hurts more. My skull hurts from the contact, my shoulders, my hip and my spine, too. Try to sense that pressure."

John traced the sensation, there was strain, but it didn't hurt. Although Sherlock was far better cushioned by his high quality coat than John was by his thin summer jacket. He also realised Sherlock had chosen the spot carefully, they were lying side by side and there were no larger or sharp stones under them.

Also, no one could see them doing this, it must look ridiculous, he smiled.

"On a scale from one to ten, how much does it hurt?" the doctor needed more details.

"Three."

"That's as much as I'd say it hurts when you get a proper bruise from running into a table."

"Yes."

"Alright."

"Now focus on your mouth, open it slightly, breathe."

John did as he was told, breathed through his mouth.

"The wet air is thick in my mouth, it needs more force to be inhaled, feels more solid than the dry inland air… it is also salty on the tongue, tasting of life and decay at the same time. The taste winds up the nasal cavities and soothes them as well as making the brain fuzzy with its intensity. It tingles and wets all the small spaces in my skull, leaves a patina in my mouth."

John gulped.

Up to now he had tried to intensely sense the few things Sherlock had mentioned, now that he described this it gained unwanted intensity.

He could feel the clogging wetness in his head that smelled of rotting fish, was it just imagination, created by empathy?

He winced, maybe he _was_ just imagining it but that exactly was the idea behind this, wasn't it?

"You need to be aware of it, don't try to ignore the sensation, it would spoil this experiment."

"Trying. It's…"

"I know, I live with that every day. Don't mark it as negative, it just is. Although it feels thicker it also feels cleansing and pure. It clears the insides of the head, refreshes the mind, blows away mental dust."

John attempted to imagine how the clean air cleanses his mind.

"The air moisture is perceptible on the skin, everywhere… entering the ears, relaxing the little hairs inside them, soothing them. The hairs on the skull curl up and it causes a slightly tingling movement."

John huffed in amusement, trying to feel the insides of his ears and the hairs on his skull.

"It starts to slightly weight down the clothes, it's a flimsy change, but it's constant. The skin catches small drops of salt water. Where they dry the surface starts to tense, maybe itch. The lips start to feel taut, the urge to lick them is there. The inside of the mouth becomes salty because of the licking."

John winced, he had of course licked his lips the moment Sherlock mentioned it and it was awfully salty.

He had probably done that several times during the past hour and not even noticed it. He also realised Sherlock had switched from talking about himself to a neutral point of view.

"Even though it is overcast, the warmth of the sun is still there and can be felt through the clouds. The upper side of the body is a lot warmer than the side facing the ground, which is cooling considerably now due to the already cool nights."

John concentrated on the temperature of his surroundings and after a few moments started to feel the cold seep into him.

"It touches you, not a biting cold, but a smooth solid cold field, radiating from the ground, the contrast of the warmth from above is a bit irritating, but still in an odd balance, like standing in the cold in front of a fire, front warm, back cold. The calves are the only place that seem to be unbalanced."

Sherlock was right, it was an odd perception, travelling through his body, having pointed out every tiny bit of sensation he wouldn't even have been able to name if asked, but they were there, amplified by the directed focus and the intense explanations.

"Store the warmth from the front, it is glowing and pressing down on you like a soft sponge, soak it up, take the spongy energy inside, keep it."

John frowned, this was a departure from how Sherlock had guided him up to now, and another change of perspective.

"Don't speak, just do it."

John had no clue how he was supposed to _do_ a thing like that and what had inspired Sherlock to tell him to do it in the first place.

Nevertheless he tried to concentrate on embracing it.

The detective kept his silence for almost five minutes, so he had time to try to do it properly.

The more he concentrated, the warmer he felt, it was odd, it really felt like a sponge pressing down on his front the more he focussed on it.

"Now move your focus to the bed of pebbles at the water line, they are… agitated by the water. It causes quite a bit of noise, a low rumble as well as an intense high sound. The latter is a sizzling, grinding high pitched noise, not sure your hearing is good enough to receive it. Try to listen to them at once."

Sherlock waited a moment for his flatmate to follow.

"The rumble is accompanied by the clattering that millions of stones create by their movement. We are lying on top of this, it also caused vibrations that can be felt to the core of the bones. The blood flow feels the rumbling, too, every beat of your heart intensifies perceiving the restless movement beneath."

John gulped.

It was an odd feeling indeed, he wasn't sure what the blood had to do with it, but his body was a bit agitated by the rumbling, it felt a tiny bit threatening.

When he tried, he needed quite some time until he was able to hear or feel the high sounds Sherlock described. His hearing had probably not improved with explosions and gunfire in a war zone. People usually underestimated how loud war really was… and how madding silence could be after a fight or an emergency. It had made him sick sometimes, both the noise and the silence.

He also noted Sherlock now used the word 'you' in his descriptions constantly.

"This is _always_ here. There has been no day for hundreds of years where these stones haven't travelled up and down this beach. It is a constant noise and movement and it will go on for a long time… hopefully…I will take this sense memory with me and it will not leave me… My version of sensations can be a source of intense pleasure…" He took a deep breath, "But right now it's upsetting my stomach."

John could hear him sit up, aware that Sherlock must experience it all much more intense than usual due to the focus he directed at sensing and putting it into words.

He waited and heard the other man take a few deep breaths.

Before John could ask if they should stop, Sherlock continued to speak, his voice a bit rougher.

"Breathing moves the stones under your back, the grinding noise is very low in comparison to the force that moves the stones at the waterline, some of it sounds… clicking."

John could feel and hear the stones move with his respiration.

"Every wave that crushes into the shore makes the ground shake with the impact, feel it."

The moment John directed his focus on it, it was suddenly shatteringly loud.

He felt it, the cacophony of the moving stones and the crashes of the impacts, blown up by the full body focus.

After the initial shock, he smiled, this was an extraordinary sensual journey.

"The waves create a stir of air, shoving it in our direction, intensifying the smell and the humidity in the air in waves. When the water changes direction and rolls back down the waterline the sounds change, the contrast of the silence after the impact of the wave feels… empty."

Sherlock stayed silent for another two or three minutes, then continued to speak.

"I can smell your after shave and detect your body heat next to me, like an oval bubble of a temperature difference."

John tried to sense Sherlock's warmth like that, too, but failed. He also failed to smell any of the products Sherlock used, which was no wonder because they are in general almost odourless from John's point of view, though he knew Sherlock chooses them by their scent.

"The wind just changed direction… Someone is cooking in the houses on the shore… steaks and fried potatoes."

John mentally shook his head.

He had seen the houses in the distance and there was another strip of sea between them and the small row of buildings, as well as the dune of stones behind them.

"There is also a women walking somewhere, cheap and nasty perfume."

John giggled.

"I know you can't, but be aware that I sense all of that at once, not like you. You probably moved from one sensation I described to the next, following my lead, not keeping them all in one moment. Try to bring it all into focus as a whole."

"Blimey… it's intense," John knew he wasn't managing to imagine it all at once, but it was a quite strong experience nevertheless.

"Welcome to my world."

They kept their silence for another few minutes and John tried again to keep it all in focus at the same time.

"I can also taste you in the air around me, it's almost an intrusion into your private space… I sometimes feel like..."

Sherlock stopped, and John sensed the struggle, when he couldn't find the words he went on.

"Try to keep all the sensations in the front of your mind, don't shove them away. The sounds of the sea, the intense rhythm of the waves, the crash is a relief of power… the mind can push bad things out of the system, work them free. The sound guides the movement."

John frowned, wondering where he had lost the path.

"This place is nice because it is possible to experience the wildness of the sea, not the domesticated nature that is around us in London. This is true and an unstoppable force. The taste of life."

The doctor struggled to understand the sudden and almost philosophical switch to musing about life.

"Nature has its own rhythm, it's intense but soothing, not too fast and not too slow. There are people who would describe this as the music of nature. Sounds can be an intense source of pleasure."

A moment later he huffed in disappointment.

"What is it?"

"I hear cars."

"Well, this country is not big enough so one could really get away from civilisation. You should go to New Zealand if you have the chance, it's gorgeous. Maybe I'll visit Robert again some time, you should come then."

"That is the one you visited with the doctor?"

"Her name is Sarah, Sherlock, Sarah. And yes, we visited him."

" I don't do holidays."

"Why not?"

"Dull. I'd go mad having nothing to do. Never liked vacations as a child, I did fear I might get insane, although our parents tried to entertain us, it was never enough."

John could animatedly imagine that.

"That was long ago, maybe today you could relish things that were boring in your youth."

John could almost hear Sherlock roll his eyes, he tried to keep his level of focus on their 'experiment'.

He found he liked doing this, it was an insight he had long hoped for.

"I can hear the birds," John directed his friend back to the world of sensations he was still trying to float in.

Or had Sherlock deliberately moved out of the session because it had become too intense?... or because he was really disturbed by the cars and the sounds of civilisation, unable to ignore them?

"Yes, how many different voices?"

"You mean like species or individuals?"

"I hear the individuals but you should be able to hear at least… four different species."

John tried to concentrate.

There were seagulls, at least one.

Then there were tiny birds in the distance, chirping, at least two, they were arguing somewhere.

"Sometimes it _is_ good to perceive all this," Sherlock muses. "But usually the only way to do it is in solitude and with many precautions to prevent overload. Sometimes I need it to be overwhelming and painful."

"Does my presence spoil the experience? I mean when we were at the shoreline, on the rocks in august, was it less good because I was there?"

"No."

"Why not?" John was curious, of course he had his own thesis why, but he wanted Sherlock to think about it, or try to express it.

"I don't know… Because it's _you_."

"Oh," John raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes to look at his friend. He winced, the dim light was suddenly too bright and he was blinking into the cloudy sky.

"You just gave me a… gift… This was something special, thank you."

"It was awful… but I never though I could put this in words… or that someone might want to hear it. I learned to hide my sensations because they are too much, it was a frightening storm when I was a child. This is what I experience every second of every day and I can't pause it, can't stop it, can't dim it."

"Sherlock, to know about this - having experienced it a bit like you do - it enriches my life… and it probably did the same for your parents, though they might have seldom expressed it, because you _suffered_ from it. Feel encouraged to tell me what you sense… and feel free to communicate if it gets too much."

"What I just explained is the 'normal' perception. But sometimes it gets more intense, when I deliberately decide to go there, into the sensation, or feeling, whatever you want to call it. I am able to immerse myself in a different way. Unleashed, it can be overwhelming and I need either solitude or someone who I can trust absolutely, which I haven't had before, so this is new for me… When I was a child it frightened me how lost I could get by experiencing. I needed to pull myself out by force sometimes. Sensing can be a flush or exhilaration, but it rarely happens in the right circumstances and I can't trust the situation enough to let go - open the gates to the input."

"Why are you so careful about it? What happened?"

"As you already know I might get physically sick, suffer breathing problems or bad headaches. The intensity of the sensations can also cause emotions to go wild, the turbulences make me lose my footing…"

"What?… What does that mean?"

"No comment."

John felt he had been granted enormous insight and didn't poke further. This was a lot for one day and if Sherlock didn't want to talk about it, he'd respect that. The slightly out of character remarks Sherlock had made showed the doctor how uneasy with the topic he was, and how inexperienced when it came to express emotions and feelings. But he had tried even though it was hard.

What John had been given today was a precious thing and he'd keep it carefully. He was sure there were a lot of things he hadn't even grasped and that needed further thinking.

"I want to go back," Sherlock said and stood up.

John picked up two pebbles from where they had sat and slipped them into his chest pocket, then followed. They were of intense different colours but very smooth; he wanted a reminder of this event.

.

* * *

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 _A/N:_

 _Ask google pictures for a picture of the beach, it is a remarkable piece of nature. Unfortunately I've never been there or to the UK at all._

 _Leave a review and make my day :)_


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